A Promise to Future Me

I wake up in the middle of the night, my body jerking upright.

I just remembered something.

And I know that I cannot get back to sleep without handling it.

I ignore the fact that Benjamin is not in bed, even though it stings, more than the cold tonight.

I walk over to my desk, shivering due to the cold, pulling on my sweater tighter.

Turning on the lamp, I flip feverishly through the pages of my journal, the smell of ink as familiar as the back of my hand.

I land on the page I’m looking for, the list of goals I had written down carefully exactly a year ago, right as the hour hand of the clock reached towards twelve, announcing a new year.

I run my finger down the list, all ticked neatly, confirming that my new year resolutions had been completed.

But I know I missed something.

At the bottom of the page, almost as an afterthought, written in my small handwriting are the words ‘finish your book’.

My heart begins to thump faster, loud enough to block out the music coming in through the windows from the various new year celebrations happening all around me.

I knew it.

I knew that I had forgotten something.

Putting off writing the book had come the easiest to me this year.

It was always at the back of my mind, looming like a dark cloud. But I kept pushing it away, even though I knew that I would regret it.

Even though writing had always been my first love.

I guess that’s why I and Benjamin never worked out.

Ever since my childhood, I was always the one sitting in a corner, reading a book, laughing and crying with the characters, knowing that they were the only friends I was ever going to get without having to change myself in any way.

I majored in Psychology, always looking longingly at the English and Creative Writing majors as they discussed the topics I’ve always wanted to discuss, the things no one understood. But I stayed away.

After landing myself a stable job, I started writing again.

I wrote and wrote until my fingers had depressions where the pen had rested, and my wrist was cramped up. My hands were always inked and scarred by paper cuts by the end of the day. But I loved every moment of it.

Then I met Benjamin.

I loved him, sure, but I wasn’t in love with him. Never. But my family was. They thought that he was the kind of man that didn’t come around so often, that I shouldn’t let him go, no matter what my personal feelings were.

So, when he got down on one knee almost two years ago, I had to say yes, for my family’s sake.

After our marriage, I started writing lesser and lesser because Benjamin didn’t like it. He hated that spending time with my fictional characters and my paper and ink made me happier than being with him.

He started making it a point to talk to me whenever I sat down to write. He said he just wanted to spend time with his wife, but I knew. I knew he detested that writing made me happier than he ever could.

I slowly stopped writing, knowing that if my married life had to improve, I had to compromise.

I started spending more time with him, and we went to movies and restaurants, road trips and holidays.

It didn’t take long to realize that we didn’t have much in common.

While Benjamin skydived and swum and ran until his face was red, I sat somewhere quiet, and read a book.

Both of us drifted apart. He started going out to bars, coming home drunk after I was asleep.

He slept in the guest room, and sometimes on the couch when he wasn’t sober enough to climb up the stairs without falling over.

I tried to make it work, I did.

But we both knew that it wouldn’t.

We kept going, just for everyone else’s sake.

I completely kept my writing on hold, knowing that if we were ever going to work, I can’t possibly do the one thing he hates.

I discarded all thoughts of my first book, the characters I had loved and written so much about.

On New Year’s Eve last year, while writing my new year’s resolutions down, I don’t know what possessed me to write down finishing my book as one too.

But I must do it.

I must be able to tick this off.

I check the time.

10:30 PM.

I thank the stars that I went to bed early and go to my closet.

Taking out the box I haven’t touched in over a year and a half, I wipe off the dust carefully and open it.

The strong smell of worn-out paper hits me, taking me back to the time I was happy.

I take the papers to my desk, skimming over the pages, trying to jog my memory.

I marvel at my past self, my words thrilling me.

As I reach the end of my manuscript, I know exactly how this story is going to end.

Taking more papers and ink out from my drawer, I fill my pen.

For the first time in so long, I smile, looking forward to the work I have to do.

Starting at an acceptable pace, I greet my characters once again, continuing from the climax.

As my protagonist confronts his fears, I feel proud of him, in a way a mother would feel proud of her child.

I check the time once again.

11:15 PM.

Two more chapters to go.

My hand flies over the pages, words appearing like magic, strung together to form something heartwarming.

I write the protagonist and his love interest’s moment, having them almost kiss, but being interrupted by the deuteragonist.

The finale, a satisfying way to wrap up their story, but still leaving some loose ends to continue in a sequel.

I carefully place the final full stop.

Reading over it once again, the words start to become blurry.

A few tears fall on the pages, smudging a few words.

I fell in love with the characters again, I found their voices again.

I found my voice again.

I hear a loud sound from outside, and looking at the clock, I realise why.

Ten seconds to midnight.

I push the curtains, and look out at the large crowd, counting down.

I count with them. At the final second, I scream just as loud as the rest of them, in joy and in relief.

Happy new year.

I did it.

I run back over to the desk, feeling jumpy and excited.

Ticking off ‘finish your book’ gives me the kind of satisfaction that I’ve only dreamed off.

I get a giddier feeling when I write two other resolutions to the resolutions I had been writing down for the past week for this year that has just begun.

The first one, of course, being ‘divorce Benjamin’.

The second one being ‘write another book’.

Almost as if I know that future me may need it; I also add a little note at the end.

You can do it.

I did it.

You can too.

I know it’s hard, but it’s so worth it.

I promise, Aloysia.